


Deal Me A Fate

by gwennolmarie



Series: Face Cards [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dysphoria, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst, Medical, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Trans Character, Unrequited Crush, is mentioned but doesn't play a huge role and it's not an angsty thing, john has a puppy crush, non-binary john marston, scars and doubts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: ‘I owe you’ is something they toss back and forth on an almost daily basis but they never really keep count.Numbers are unspecific but if John pictures a scale and on either side the number of favors they’ve said they owe the other well…Arthur's side might as well be air.





	Deal Me A Fate

“Nah, nah, nah,” Arthur says, and reaches over to cover John’s hand with his own before the younger can complete the play.

John raises an eyebrow at the older man across the table.

“What?” John asks innocently.

“Marston, we ain’t never used Aces as the highest card, take that shit back,” Arthur says and shoves the ace back into John’s hand from under his meld of Jack, Queen, King.

“You sure?” John frowns as pathetically as possible and lingers with his arm outstretched.

“Yes, I’m sure, you idiot,” Arthur grunts as he sits back in his chair.

John huffs and adds the card back into his hand.

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his ale to hide his smile.

John always tries to cheat, but only with him.

It’s been like this for as long as he can remember.

John’s more sly than he’s given credit for, and the younger knows Arthur has a soft spot for him.

One time, just one time he was allowed to get away with cheating.

Now he tries it at least once per game.

“Play somethin’,” Arthur says.

John purses his lips slightly then huffs and places a Six of Hearts on the discard pile.

Regrets it immediately when he sees Arthur’s eyes light up.

Six, Seven, and Eight of Hearts make their way onto the table in a meld and Arthur puts his discard down with a flourish.

Leans in and smirks at John.

“You don’t even gotta say it!” John bitches.

Arthur smiles a little and sits back.  
John lets out a sigh, disappointment and relief, then starts gathering the cards to deal.

The corner of a card hits him in the middle of his forehead with force and he flinches back.

“Hey!” John gripes and drops the deck to rub his forehead.

They’re both surprised when his fingers come away bloody.

The younger looks up to glare at Arthur, who still has his hand in the air from where he’d flicked the card at John, his eyes wide in shock.

“Aw, shit, kid,” Arthur grimaces and moves to get up, “I didn’t mean to-”

John beats him to it, darting away from the table towards the stream that trickles by their camp.

He hears Dutch calling after the older man and glances over his shoulder to see Arthur at the top of the bank, looking torn.

Arthur goes to Dutch, after their leader hollers for him again.

John angrily rinses the blood off his face before pressing his palm to the cut and keeping it there until the bleeding stops.

\--

The peace offering comes while John is folded up in the back of a wagon at night, waiting for Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur to return.

“Watch the wagon,” Dutch had said firmly before he and the other two older men broke off into the town.

He still feels like a kid sometimes, being smaller, being treated like this.

He has his legs drawn up, shotgun balanced over his knees.

A paper bag drops into his lap, between the gun and his chest.

He startles violently and twists around onto his knees, aiming the gun.

The muzzle ends up only inches from Arthur’s face but the older man just snorts a laugh.

“Eat it ‘fore Dutch gets back,” Arthur says then hops off the front of the wagon and disappears back into the bustling town.

John frowns at his retreating back until he loses sight of the head of tousled hair, uncharacteristically lacking its hat.

John looks down at the bag and sets the shotgun to the side to pick up the bag and open it.

It’s… some kind of baked good.

A little cake, shaped like a shell, drizzled with chocolate and smelling like heaven.

John wipes his hand roughly on his trouser leg then digs out the little cake, immediately feeling the chocolate melting on his fingertips.

He savors it, for once.

Minutes pass and he hears the footsteps crunching on gravel this time and hurriedly shoves the empty, crumpled bag in his pocket and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur’s head pops into the cab of the wagon between the canvas flaps before the older man climbs in.

Dutch and Hosea are chuckling over something as they hoist themselves into the driver’s bench.

“No problems?” Dutch aims at John as he settles in.

“Nah.”

“Well then,” Dutch nudges Hosea with his elbow as the older man takes up the reins, “Off we go, Mr. Matthews?”

John tries to settle with his back against the front wall of the wagon, on the floor, where he prefers to sit during rides.

Arthur’s up on the bench next to him, looking at him in a mix of fondness and exasperation.

“C’mere,” Arthur mutters and grabs his handkerchief before somewhat roughly wiping at John’s mouth, his other hand at the back of the younger’s neck.

John stares up at him with wide eyes.

His heart feeling too quick, face too heated.

Arthur pulls the cloth away and frowns at the healing cut on John’s forehead.

He gives a crooked, apologetic smile to John, squeezing the younger’s nape before pulling back completely.

John swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and wipes his mouth aimlessly with his sleeve cuff.

\--

“That was mighty dumb of you, John,” Arthur says quietly as he’s crouched in front of the younger who’s sat on his ass on a muddy river bank, cradling his ankle.

“Shut up,” John grumbles, uncomfortable in his soaked trousers.

“It was.”

“I know, Arthur, now shut up and help me up.”

Arthur huffs at John’s extended hand and pulls him halfway up only to get his shoulder under John’s stomach and lift him up that way.

“Arthur! You don’t have to carry me, for Christ’s sake,” John bitches and squirms in the hold.

Arthur keeps his arm firmly around the back of John’s thighs.

“This is quicker than lettin’ you limp back.”

John grumbles but concedes, hooking his arm around Arthur’s side to keep himself from flopping around.

This isn’t the first time Arthur’s thrown him over his shoulder like this, and it surely won’t be the last.

“So what have we learned this evening?” Arthur asks primly.

“Morgan, I swear to all things go-”

“John, seriously, you gotta be careful,” Arthur grunts as he steps up a ledge onto the trail, “What if you’d been alone out here?”

John looks down at the bastard river that caused this mess.

He can barely see through the stirred-up silt but the stone and pebble riverbed very obviously has a thick layer of slippery algae growing on it.

John grumbles a little then rests his cheek on Arthur’s lower back.

They’re quiet the rest of the way back to camp.

\--

When they get there Arthur carefully lowers himself to his knees so John can slide off his shoulder and onto the grass next to his bedroll.

Arthur digs a pair of pants out of John’s saddlebag and waves them at the younger.

“You gonna need help?”

John snatches the pants and uses them to swat the older man who laughs and rises, ducking out of the tent.

John presses his lips together to fight a smile.

\--

John isn't fond of being touched.

Too many hands hitting and grabbing in violence soured his instinct when a hand landed on his shoulder or when he was younger and Dutch grew a habit of ruffling John’s hair.

But Arthur was different.

That wasn’t always true, it took years and years but now Arthur’s presence feels like a solace, not a smothering.

So when a hand curls around his upper arm while he’s ducked in a dark corner of a wharf in an unfamiliar town, wedged between crates as tall as he himself is, he knows it’s Arthur.

The older man lowers them to the ground, getting John to pull away from the brick wall he’d been using as support.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Arthur murmurs and John bites hard on his tongue as the older man shucks up the younger’s shirt to get a look at the gash on his side.

“Alright,” Arthur says, pulling back slightly but not far, John having a vice grip around one of his forearms.

Arthur doesn’t look as frantic as John feels but he watches the older man crane his neck and listen for the guards who they’d had to run from after John got caught looking through the shipping crates.

Dutch had heard of a shipment coming in of newly minted coins.

Small town, but a good port.

There shouldn’t have been this many guards.

It was supposed to be easy, just Arthur and John, disguised as workers.

All they were supposed to do was move one specific crate from that cart to theirs, get it to their wagon and ride off into the night a couple thousand richer.

But a guard spotted John acting suspicious enough and, apparently, this company has a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ policy.

John tries to sit up and stifles a sharp sound of pain.

Arthur hushes him quickly and moves to stand.

“We’re goin' through an alley, a little way to the left, and then we should be able to get back the wagon,” Arthur murmurs and leans down to heft John up with him.

John’s vision goes a little darker and he leans heavily onto the older man trusting Arthur can support him.

“Your left or mine?” John asks dazedly.

“What?” Arthur looks at him and John has to close his eyes against the swell of nausea and the surge of pain as Arthur wraps a hand around his ribs to keep him upright and it’s only a few inches above the slow-bleeding gash.

“Which way? Your left,” John whispers, “Or mine?”

“John… we’re facin' the same way.”

The younger tilts his head to look at Arthur who suddenly looks much more concerned.

“Did you hit your head?” Arthur asks and the hand not on John’s side feels gently over the younger’s skull.

They both grimace when Arthur’s fingers find a swelling near John’s hairline.

“Shit,” Arthur grumbles, “Can I carry you?”

“You’re actually askin’?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and John huffs before giving a tiny shrug.

Arthur carefully hoists him over his shoulder and peeks out from behind the crates before darting into the alley, John miserably clinging to him.

\--

The sun is not too far below the horizon in the distance, golds and lilacs barely filtering into the clear dark above them.

Arthur pushes the wagon’s canvas covering out of the way and John manages to plant himself onto the wood and hiss through his teeth as he wriggles further in.

Arthur spares the younger one last glance-over before tying the flaps closed and darting around into the driver’s bench.

He calls the horses to move and glances back at John who’s got one hand shielding his eyes and the other on his side over the wound.

Arthur turns back to the road.

“You puttin’ pressure on that?” The older man asks.

His suspicion is confirmed when John starts quietly bitching and then there’s a sharp, high pitched gasp.

“That’s good, Johnny, you keep pressin’ on that and I’ll get us somewhere safe.”

\--

Somewhere safe is a lucky find.

Arthur had seen some old fencing, old sun-bleached signs and followed the slightly-overgrown trail into the woods along a crystal clear river before reaching a sight that in any other moment he would’ve longed to draw immediately.

He ignores the ruins of what he assumes was a house, chimney still standing and flora fresh and years younger than the plants surrounding.

A fire, he assumes.

There’s an old corral and it still closes, though it doesn’t latch, so he ushers the horses in.

Hurrying.

Hurrying.

He doesn’t waste time with the canvas and hops back up into the driver’s bench before climbing into the cab and strategically lowering himself next to John.

Their saddles are propped on the benches, secured with rope to the frame of the wagon.

He’s kneeling with one knee on either side of one of John’s legs.

John gives him the okay when he sees the older man hesitating to open the younger’s shirt.

John watches him blearily.

He roughly brushes the hair out of his face and tries to keep quiet as Arthur uses the medical supplies in their packs to treat the bullet graze.

“I don’t think I can close this,” Arthur admits after gently pressing at the already-scabbing edges.

John huffs a stifled laugh and rubs his eyes, rolling his head to smile self-deprecatingly up at Arthur.

“Never that lucky, are we?”

“We’ll just have to keep a close eye, keep it real clean.”

“‘Course.”

“You willingly submittin' to being bathed, Marston?”

John can’t quite bring himself to laugh.

He grimaces and feels his eyes sting before he looks away from Arthur to the canvas above them.

“I don’t wanna die,” John admits softly.

He can hear Arthur moving around before the older man’s face is suddenly right above his.

Arthur’s crouched over him, expression firm.

“You ain’t dyin’.”

John studies the older face, the determination and care.

He swallows and nods, because he can tell Arthur’s waiting for him to agree.

Arthur nods back and then crawls up out of the front of the wagon.

\--

John isn’t sure when he fell asleep.

He remembers it growing lighter but his eyelids growing heavier and it was just so quiet, before dawn, the birds not yet singing.

The soft sound of the river nearby and Arthur moving around outside the wagon lulled him under.

Now he’s awake, and it’s dark again.

He feels bound for a moment and then realizes his open, soiled shirt is tangled around his arms, holding them to his sides.

He tries to sit up but a shock of pain keeps him from lifting up more than an inch.

He thumps back down onto the wood.

There’s a pause in the rustling outside, quiet clinking and scratching going silent.

Then the wagon shifts and Arthur’s face peers down at him.

He laughs quietly at the way Arthur looks upside down, just as handsome, but his hair is falling away from his scalp and giving him a wavy halo of honey-brown.

“How you feelin’?” Arthur asks softly.

“Like I caught a bullet in the side,” John says, voice even scratchier than normal.

Arthur frowns, disappears, then returns only to climb into the cab with a canteen and sandwiches himself between John and one of the benches, on the floorboards.

He helps the younger sit up.

“Help me outta this,” John grumbles and wriggles his arms, trying not to lift them but wanting the shirt sleeves off.

Arthur studies him for a second and then carefully manipulates John’s limbs, asking for little movements, to bend this way and that and lift but only a little.

And John lets him, he knows Arthur wouldn’t do anything to cause him unnecessary pain so he yields.

Arthur reaches one arm around either side of John to pull the shirt off wrists and John lets himself slump onto the older man’s shoulder, nose buried in Arthur’s collar.

The older man pauses, then wriggles the shirt free and tosses it to the side.

But he doesn’t pull back.

So John carefully lifts the hand on his uninjured side and grips at Arthur’s shoulder while he hides his face.

“...You alright?”

“My head hurts,” John says, muffled by the cotton of Arthur’s shirt.

“I bet. Wait ‘til you see a mirror.”

“Fuck off.”

Arthur snorts a laugh and carefully slides one hand up John’s back, cradling the younger’s shoulderblade.

“You think you can get up on one of them benches long enough that I can get the bedrolls out?”

John groans.

\--

They manage, John perched on the bench and Arthur lifting the younger’s legs when he needs to flatten a mat or blanket.

Arthur pulls the blankets back then glances up at John.

“We need to wrap that for tonight,” Arthur says, pointing at the wound.

John nods in agreement and his head pounds with the movement.

Arthur manages to get a firm wrap of bandages around his waist, extra padding slick with vaseline towards the middle of the gash where it iss still wet.

He climbs down onto the floor while Arthur’s busy outside the tent, wanting to do something for himself.

He hates being a burden.

He knows Arthur doesn’t see it that way, but there’s a guilt that nags at him.

That it always seems like it’s Arthur coming to his rescue.

The older man peeks into the cab and huffs when he sees John’s awkward sprawl.

“Fire’s out, but we’ve got jerky,” Arthur says with a grunt as he hoists himself up sitting on the edge and yanking off his boots.

As John watches he realizes his own have already been removed.

He rolls his eyes at the idea of Arthur tugging the too-tight boots off John’s knocked out body.

Arthur crawls up next to him and glances over his twisted form.

“How you wanna sleep?” Arthur murmurs and almost unconsciously makes sure the edges of the bandages are secure.

“On my good side, I suppose,” John says.

“You want me behind or in front of you?”

John swallows thickly and wipes the hair out of his eyes to look up at Arthur, who looks a little awkward but sincere.

“...Which do you think?”

“Behind you, I think we’d fit better in here, and I won’t have to turn around to help you.”

“Who says I’ll need help?”

Arthur sighs, and it’s long-suffering but John doesn’t feel annoyance.

Arthur’s most common emotions towards the younger are ‘exasperated-but-fond’.

It’s been that way forever.

At first, it annoyed John but the older he’s gotten the more he appreciates the seemingly endless patience Arthur has for his fuck-ups.

They snarl and snap at each other but at the end of every night, they’re together.

Usually on the same log, bumping knees as they joke and bitch.

“I ain’t sayin’ you’re gonna need help, but I want to be ready if you do need help,” Arthur says quietly and waits for John’s nod before he helps the younger move to face one of the benches.

He feels Arthur pull away and sees the older from the corner of his eye, kneeling behind him and leaning over to tuck the shirt he’d just removed into a saddlebag.

Arthur settles behind him and seems to struggle for a moment of where to put his arms.

They both tend to move around in their sleep, so sharing a tent usually started with both of them on their backs and ended up with John latched onto Arthur, either smothered to the older man’s back or curled up against Arthur’s chest.

Arthur folds one arm under his head and tentatively grazes the knuckles of his other hand against John’s spine.

The faint knobs that never seem like they’ll fade with food or strength.

“What do you think went wrong?” John asks after a few minutes of Arthur’s calm, soothing stroking over his back.

“With the job?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it’s,” Arthur shifts behind him, “It must’ve been a sour source.”

John stays quiet and Arthur’s hand pauses.

“Why?”

“Feels… strange.”

“Strange?”

“There’s was meant to be a couple’a grand in that crate. Why would Dutch send us alone?”

“Well, there weren’t supposed to be guards like they had. Plus, it’s easier to believe two new workers over four or five.”

John hums softly and the back’s of Arthur’s fingers slowly start moving over his skin again.

Aimless.

He knows it’s something Arthur just kinda does.

The older man’s more tactile in everything but it really ramps up when there’s stress to back up that restlessness.

John roughly wipes at his hair with his restricted reach, trying to get it out of his eyes.

Careful fingers sweep the strands back and tuck them behind his ear.

“Thanks,” John mutters.

“Sure,” Arthur says, but it’s loaded.

John regrets posing the question because he can practically hear Arthur focusing on it now.

“When’s the last time you slept?” John asks, trying to change the line of thought he thinks Arthur’s mind might be heading in.

“Some time,” Arthur says vaguely.

“Well, I’m awake enough, if you want to now…”

“I ain’t real tired.”

John isn’t sure what to say next but he’s cut off before he even has a chance, his stomach growling softly.

Arthur huffs a laugh and the warm hands leave him.

There’s the rustling of leather and fabric and then a strip of dried meat, he isn’t sure what, is held in front of him.

He carefully takes it with a murmured thanks and rips a piece down the grain with his teeth.

Chewing and chewing.

Arthur’s laying on his back behind John now.

Chewing slowly and staring at the canvas.

He longs to pull off the cover and have the sky and all the stars in view but the air is damp and he thinks it’ll rain tonight.

“What do you want to tell Dutch?” Arthur asks suddenly, mouth still a little full.

“Huh?”

“I mean, you wanna say you got caught?”

John sighs through his nose as he chews.

“John?”

“No, Arthur,” John says with his food stuffed into his cheek, “I don’t want to tell him I fucked up. What kinda question is that?”

“That ain’t what I-” Arthur huffs and lightly elbows John’s back, “You know what I’m askin'.”

Arthur’s asking if John wants a favor.

If he wants Arthur to take the blame so he’ll be spared the ire and the condescension that comes with every time Dutch is disappointed in John.

“I owe you already,” John mutters between bites.

“You d-”

“Shut up, Arthur, you know I do.”

‘I owe you’ is something they toss back and forth on an almost daily basis but they never really keep count.

Numbers are unspecific but if John pictures a scale and on either side the number of favors they’ve said they owe the other well…

Arthur's side might as well be air.

“How are you measurin’ these ‘I owe you's, John?” Arthur asks quietly, voice a little stern.

Something he'd picked up from Hosea.

“What are you askin’?”

“I mean are they all worth the same? Or does each have its own value? I imagine me coverin’ a chore for you ain't the same worth as me pullin' your ass out of the fire.”

John takes a short breath in.

Of course they aren't the same worth.

John tries to think of the times he's covered chores for the older man versus the times he's saved Arthur.

There are plenty of the former and only a handful of the latter.

Not a single example he can think of in the last few years.

John suddenly isn't so hungry and takes to shredding the meat instead, finely pinching one strand and separating it from the chunk.

Arthur snatches the jerky out of his hand and John doesn't protest but he's surprised by a small piece being pressed against his mouth a few seconds later.

“Arthur…” he says irritatedly, muffled by Arthur's fingertips.

“Eat it, John, I ain't askin'.”

John rolls his eyes and childishly makes sure his teeth snag on Arthur's knuckles causing the older man to curse.

He chews though, without objection.

Right after he swallows another piece is held to his lips and he tries to take it.

“Just eat it, John.”

“I ain't a baby, I can feed myself.”

He hears Arthur huff behind him and then a hand carefully tugs him to lay on his back.

He sucks on his teeth and doesn’t look at Arthur.

“I gave you the chance to feed yourself and you threw it away.”

John’s nose twitches in irritation.

This is a battle with a long history.

John refusing or forgetting to eat for one reason or another until Arthur found out and forced him to.

His hunger is a fickle thing, sometimes ravenous and other times precarious.

John firmly stares at the canvas covering but he can feel the older man’s intense stare.

“Just eat, John,” Arthur finally mutters, holding a small strip out to the younger.

John turns to look at the older man and Arthur just looks tired.

“If I eat will you rest?”

Arthur’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“Sure.”

\--

After Arthur’s satisfied with the amount John has eaten he helps the younger turn onto his side and settles behind him again.

Arthur sometimes would sling an arm over John’s waist under the guise of a joke but they’d both sleep better for it.

With the wound in the way, he can’t do that.

John can feel the gap between them and despises it.

He holds out his hand back towards the older man.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Gimme your hand.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but sets his hand in the younger’s.

John pulls Arthur’s arm around his chest, over the bottom of his ribcage.

He can feel Arthur’s hesitation.

“You… You sure you’re okay without your chest covered?” Arthur asks, more tentative and cautious than John has heard him in a while.

“If I weren’t you think I’d’ve done this?” John pokes Arthur’s forearm where it rests against his skin, even if the older man’s hand is carefully held out, not touching him.

John’s glad he cares at all to ask, honestly.

Arthur was the first to know, knows the most in general. Is the only one of the gang John feels comfortable around in a state of undress like this.

Arthur’s fingers slowly press in to lay flat against him at the bottom of his sternum.

John pats the hand softly then pillows his hands under his head the best he can without stretching his side.

“Wake me up if you hear somethin',” Arthur mutters before squeezing him lightly and closing his eyes.

“Alright.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes i come bearing comfort fic because i've been a mental and physical disaster lately 
> 
> re: all my WIPs are still active and i refuse to give up on them so hopefully all wip fics will be updated in may, maybe the series fics also
> 
> as always my tumblr and twitter are @gwennolmarie
> 
> even if i'm not well, i appreciate all the support i get from y'all on my fics, it really does mean a lot, and i hope you're fairing better than i am


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